


getting used to it

by hydrangeamaiden



Series: Hallownest Collection [4]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bubble Bath, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Family Bonding, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Post-Canon, Recovery, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden
Summary: Hornet, Ghost, and the Hollow Knight have nowhere to be and no obligations to fill. For the first time in their lives, Hallownest is at peace. Before they can start to rebuild the old kingdom, they must rebuild themselves first.
Relationships: Grimmchild & The Knight (Hollow Knight), Hornet & The Hunter (Hollow Knight), The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet & The Knight, The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Series: Hallownest Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1419010
Comments: 24
Kudos: 359





	1. Ghost & Grimmchild

**Author's Note:**

> 'Care, you have like so many writing projects going on' YEAH WELL I LIKE HAVING A LOT TO WRITE

During the night, the Grimmchild grew legs. Over the past couple of weeks, her molts have been growing more frequent, and Ghost has been content to put things on hold to take care of her. During this time, they feel like their parenting skills have been improving as quickly as their daughter has been growing. They think it’s accurate to refer to her as such. They’ve been taking care of her since birth.

Maybe they’re lucky that their travels took place when she was so little, and couldn’t wander off on her own. Yes, she had her wings, but never the incentive to stray from their side. Tonight, she has tried to escape the tub three times before they could even lather her up. And she loves baths. Ghost resorts to pulling out the expensive soap, the luxury stuff, to keep her in the tub. This particular bottle smells like strawberries, and creates bubbles as frothy as a cloud. Between that and the hot water, the Grimmchild will be too comfortable to move for a while.

“Mrrrp,” she chirps as they massage her plush, baby-soft wings. Ghost boops her on the nose, and she nips at their finger. “Mwee!”

When they run the washcloth over her new legs, she squeals and kicks at them. Suds and water slosh over the rim of the tub, soaking the front of their cloak. She’s enjoying her new appendages, no doubt, but must she make them all wet and uncomfortable? Ghost sighs. At this rate, she’ll wake up their siblings.

“Shh.” They put a finger to their mask. “Shshsh.”

“Shshsh!” Grimmchild squeaks back at them. In response, they wring the wet washcloth over her head. “Ma!”

“Sh!” Ghost whips around to face the door. They swear they heard someone coming down the stairs. A minute passes where even the Grimmchild is quiet, but no one comes downstairs to tell them to be quiet. Ghost sighs, and pulls the drain out of the tub. Grimmchild has finished her molt and has been cleaned off, so there’s no sense in keeping her up longer than she has to. When rinsed off and sitting in an empty basin, she’s more inclined to keep her wings around herself, shivering, than to escape.

Swaddled in a towel and cradled in their arms, she feels much bigger and heavier than when they first received her from the Troupe Master. That garlic bulb-headed little hatchling who could only follow them silently around has grown so quickly. They realize, with a pang of regret, that it might not be much longer until she is too big to hold. They’ve yet to undergo their own metamorphosis, which they hope will leave them as tall as, or at least close to the height of the Hollow Knight.

What if Grimmchild grows up and leaves before that can happen?

In the middle of the night, the house feels as abandoned as the rest of Hallownest. It’s as black as the Abyss out there, with only sign of life being the pale ferns batting the window in the wind. For once, they don’t have to go out into that darkness. Their world can just be this room, and a closet full of clothes. They know this, but they still itch to go outside, as if there’s something they forgot to do out there. Grimmchild, still in her towel, mewls and bats Ghost’s face until they snap out of it.

They go through the motions of dressing themselves for bed, and swapping out Grimmchild’s towel for her favorite blanket. They’re about to settle her into the basket they share as a bed, when she pipes up, “Mama, story?”

Ghost gives pause. It’s late, and they’re tired. Grimmchild is clinging to their arms and giving them her best ‘sad grub’ look. They can’t do this. They’ve got to sleep. In the morning, they’ll be busy. There’s somewhere they need to go...Where was it again? Was there something they needed to do?

“Pleeease,” Grimmchild whines, frustrated by Ghost’s lack of answer.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold: the Ghost of Hallownest, defeated by an infant.

Ghost is a practical bug, and it is only recently that they’ve started gathering things they don’t need. Books seldom make their way into their possession, nonetheless. First they pick up a field guide, which the Grimmchild slaps out of their hands. They both look to each other.

“Story,” Grimmchild insists. Ghost looks at the field guide, dismayed. It’s actually very good, but they relent. The only other book in their room is one they’ve borrowed from the Hollow Knight, and it’s just what the Grimmchild is looking for. The cover is faded and the pages are wrinkled from water damage, but it’s a real picture book.

Ghost crawls into the basket with the Grimmchild, props up the book, and begins to read.


	2. Chapter 2

Kingdom’s Edge is an unfriendly place. The Hollow Knight struggles to navigate its sheer cliffs and tiny ledges, which require a precision in acrobatics that they no longer have. They remember this place before the Infection. As their father’s resting place, it was considered sacred ground. The very ash, thicker now than in the past, was considered holy. It was among the many reasons that Hallownest did not expand further east than it could have.

None of that matters anymore, when Hollow is cold and stiff and there are bodies raining from the Colosseum up north. This place is truly the embodiment of Hallownest’s decay and descent into depravity.

“It’s just a little further,” Hornet reassures them. They pass by the tail end of some massive creature, and Ghost stops to thwack it with their nail. “Would you _please_ stop playing around?”

Ghost runs ahead of the two, as if they hadn’t heard their sister, who chases after them. Hollow is left to climb by themselves, and it’s difficult work. Their nail, which was once a noble weapon, is now but a glorified cane. The nailsmith who forged it would be horrified at its state.

Hollow won’t pretend their poor health doesn’t bother them. They used to be able to teleport! They could weaponize their Soul to a broader extent than Ghost. They were strong, fast, and able to scale a wall without repeatedly sliding down. The strength they had when in the Temple of the Black Egg was only due to the Radiance’s influence.

They’re not getting anywhere with this wall. Hollow sits, sending up a plume of ash. Their stomach turns when the white flakes settle on their shoulders. Everyone else seems to forget that this is dead chitin, and whatever else is flaking off the Wyrm corpse. The thought of it has been haunting them since Hornet announced the day’s plans.

“There you are.” They look up, and see their sister hopping down to them. Her cloak balloons around her spindly body, and the Hollow Knight instinctively reaches up to catch her. For a blissful minute, the layered rocks of Kingdom’s Edge are the walls of the Palace, and the floating ashes errant petals. Only Hornet is different: older, weary, falling like a deflated balloon.

She lands on their outstretched palm, light as ever. “We’ve found the cocoon. You’ll feel much better soon, I promise. If only these were closer to the natural springs...”

She finds purchase on their shoulder, and puts a soothing hand between their horns. “I’ve woven a ladder for you over there. Try climbing that.”

She points to her construction, which is flat and white against the cliff face. If nothing else, Hollow is good at taking directions, no matter how worried it makes them. They begin their ascent, hesitating when they’ve got to move their hand up to the next rung.

Hornet puts one arm around their neck, compensating for their missing arm with one of her own. At the top is a narrow pathway through which Hollow crawls, coming out into a tall room full of blue light. Just as Hornet and Ghost told them, there’s a Lifeblood cocoon hanging from the ceiling. In this world of rot, there’s a little pocket of life. They brush their fingers over what’s either a butterfly or a flower, marveling at how soft and satiny it feels.

Ghost is less taken by the cave’s natural beauty, and more concerned with bashing the cocoon on the ceiling. They scramble up the wall, slash at it with their nail, and fall to the floor. Lifeseeds come spilling out, like an overturned bag of candy. They flee from Ghost, who has already skewered several on the tip of their blade.

Hollow shrinks back and puts a hand to their mouth. Lifeseeds were a rare commodity back in the kingdom’s prime, and here’s Ghost carelessly spearing them like fish in a creek. Nobles and commoners alike had fought over Lifeblood, using and misusing it until the Pale King instated laws restricting its use. Hollow hadn’t witnessed it personally, but it was among their school topics that had intrigued and disturbed them in the context of the Infection.

Hornet grabs Ghost by the scruff of their cloak, putting an end to their rampage. “Look at the mess you’ve made! We need to salvage every last drop of this.”

She drops Ghost, who hangs their head like a child scolded. Hollow, looking similarly defeated, finally catches her attention. She strides over and kneels in front of them, with the concern more befitting of a mother than a youngest sibling.

“Are you tired? I apologize. This was the only cocoon we knew of that was full.” Hornet reaches out to pat their head, and they catch her hand. A word dies in her mouth, and Hollow shakes their head. She has spent so much energy worrying about them already. It’s not fair to her, or to Ghost. They squeeze her hand thrice, and she lowers her head with a sigh.

Ghost, with their arms full of Lifeseeds, calls for Hornet to come help them. She does so, holding out a net for them to drop their bounty into. Blue goop leaks from the minute gaps in the silk, which Ghost swipes with a finger and licks away like candy. Hornet either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. She sets the bundle in front of the Hollow Knight, and it sags like a water balloon. If untied, it would spill everywhere. Alas, a mortar and pestle would have gotten in the way, had they brought one.

Ghost plunges their hand into the sack, and brings out a squirming Lifeseed. As they’re squishing it in their hand, Hornet gently stops them: “You’ve got to make a pinprick, and squeeze it onto the wound. That’s the best we can do in place of a vial or dropper.”

Ghost nods, and punctures its gelatinous skin with one finger. Hollow moves their cloak over their left shoulder. What little is left of their left arm is dry and flaked,  almost chalk-like in consistency. They discarded their bandages  a while ago, knowing that it wouldn’t do anything for the decay. The first squirt of Lifeblood on the wound feels like a splash of icy water, and they wince in a way that makes Ghost jerk back. Hornet instructs them to dab it on gently, and they do so, slowly soothing  the warm chitin.

Hollow, knowing of Lifeblood’s healing properties, still expects it to hurt. There’s a  pinching sensation, as if Ghost were drawing blood. It persists, and out of curiosity, they look down to see the crags on their stump arm smoothing out. The Lifeblood undulates, and is sucked in by the cracks in their carapace. The surface layer chitin curls and flakes off. Hollow retches when they see this, but nothing comes out. The sound, however, is enough to alarm both their siblings. They burn with humiliation as Hornet puts her arms around their head, shielding them from the sight of the recovery process, while instructing Ghost further.

Hollow’s carapace crawls as they feel their arm close up. Ghost moves to treat their pitted, scared chest next, and they whine high-pitched and pleading. They are too terrified to speak. They don’t want to see nor feel what’s going to happen, even if it helps. It feels  _wrong_ . They’re used to being sweltering and jagged. Yes, they know they’ll get a different kind of infection or suffer worse damage if they stay untreated, but they cannot convince themselves that this is good for them.

They hear a something shrill, and their remaining arm spasms. Hornet churrs softly and presses their face to her chest. This spider song they recognize, and it distracts them from Ghost’s gentle touches. With surprising proficiency, they slather one more layer onto their wounds before binding it with thin, elastic cloth. Excess gel leaks from the edges of the bandages, and Ghost swipes it away.

“...and the outer layer should be...” Hornet is saying. Her voice is unusually lilting, and she’s running a hand along the back of Hollow’s neck. They clench their fist tighter, until Hornet’s cloak begins to wrinkle from the pressure.

“It’s a special kind of gauze. We want something that won’t get in the way of their mobility, so I...”

Hollow huffs and puffs. Their chest feels constricted.

“...have to pull it tighter. No, not _that_ tightly. It’ll cut off their circulation.”

The pressure lifts, and Hollow takes a deep, rattling breath. Their throat aches. Hornet pries their jaw open, and pushes something gummy and cold into their mouth. It must be another Lifeseed, because what else would it be? They didn’t pack snacks for this trip. They clamp their mouth shut, and a sweet juice fills their mouth. It doesn’t hurt going down, and moments after swallowing, their roiling stomach begins to settle.

“Now, it’s not a panacea, more of a painkiller. With the right ingredients, it can be streamlined for specific ailments,” Hornet is saying. “Let’s see if we can’t get that stingy old archaeologist to give us one of his books, later.”

She looks down at Hollow, who has finally opened their eyes. They had been on the ground, squirming; they wouldn’t be below her eye level otherwise. Their shell colors, and they quickly draw away from her. Wyrm, they had been crying like a grub over something like this. Ghost, who is making the final adjustments on their bandages, squeaks angrily at them:  _hold still_ . Hollow freezes, and sees them knotting off their dressings with neat little bows.

“Were you in pain?” Hornet asks. Hollow doesn’t respond, making her sigh. She lays their head on her lap, and pulls their cloak back into place. “You did well.”

Ghost kneels by their side like a nurse, and pats Hollow’s forehead. Even though they’re the eldest, they’re being doted on again. Hornet is giving Ghost more instructions, interspersed with ideas for herbal remedies, as if they were her apprentice healer. It’s Ghost who has surprised them today, though: Hollow thought them careless and clumsy, but their handiwork is almost professional. And Hornet—for a moment, she reminded them of Herrah. But they’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her now...They cannot convey this, for they are too tired to move. Why are they so tired? 

They place a hand to their throbbing chest, and close their eyes to the sound of the two making plans to pitch camp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the holidays, it took forever to finish this chapter! I ended up just writing something very simple, but simple things are good, too.

The Colosseum of Fools is harsh and unforgiving, even to its champions. Ghost had taken on the most difficult trial, hoping to take home extra Geo to their family, but they hadn’t even made it past the first wave. The crowd’s jeers, which they’ve always been able to ignore, cut their pride to shreds and put them on the verge of tears. They collect their Shade, peaceful little shadow it is, from downstairs, and go to sulk at the bench.

They throw themselves onto the bench, head hung low and legs bunched to their chest. Their evening has been wasted. Here they are in a dirty pit, surrounded by the laughter and reek of warriors come to test their mettle, when they could be resting at home. This didn’t used to bother them.

Now they are so bothered that they don’t notice Quirrel until he puts a hand to their back. He says something pleasant, and Ghost, feeling offended, turns their back to him.

“Had a rough time, I take it?” Quirrel drapes his arm over the back of the bench. With his neat headscarf and lack of weaponry, he is a sore thumb in this crowd of bugs with their rusted armor and bloody weapons.

Is it not obvious? Ghost looks over their shoulder and squeaks angrily. Quirrel’s mask stares back at them, equally blank-faced. Though beneath it, they’re sure he’s all frowning and worried.

“You’ve been at it for a while. How about we go home?” Quirrel suggests. This catches Ghost by surprise. He never suggests just going home. It’s Ghost who has to drag him there, after he has wandered off to explore one place or another, as if it were his first time in Hallownest.

They’re too frustrated to do anything but sit and sulk, though, so it’s up to Quirrel to remove them from the premises. It apparently wasn’t enough that they had to suffer such a defeat in the arena. Being picked up and held in Quirrel’s arms like a grub make this all the more humiliating. The Fools nearby take notice of the two, and begin to snicker. Ghost, with their uniquely short stature and pristine weapon, has become familiar to the bugs of the Colosseum. More and more the little knight finds themselves wanting to make a good impression on all of them.

Quirrel, whose mind is not as clouded as it once was, has noticed the way their behavior changes when they walk in Kingdom’s Edge. He had offered his company not only out of interest for the place, but out of worry for Ghost’s well-being.

“To be honest, I’m more interested in the corpse these bugs have made themselves at home in,” he says on their way out. The dried-up mandibles and hollow eyes of said corpse recede into the distance. Ghost, sulking with their chin on Quirrel’s shoulder, feels their anger melt away the closer they get to the City of Tears. What replaces it is bone-deep, aching exhaustion from their repeated trials, and the injuries that not even the hot springs could soothe away.

“I don’t think it’s a Wyrm. There would have been record or presence of it _somewhere_ in the Archives,” Quirrel continues. This is nothing new or interesting to Ghost, but it keeps their mind off the bad day they’ve had. “But then again, what I think might not be what is correct. Mayhaps that corpse is the relic of a previous civilization.”

Ghost nods. Most of what they’ve seen from the old civilization is far, far underground. They don’t know what such a relic would be doing this far up. The City of Tears, the halfway point of Hallownest, is positively _shallow_ in the ground.

“You’re so quiet today, aren’t you? Are you still awake?” Quirrel asks after a while. His voice is soft beneath the falling rain as he pats their back. They pinch his head scarf in response. “I need your help with something when we return home, actually. There’s a recipe I haven’t made in ages. Not since, well...”

The rain lashes angrily at the windows of the elevator shaft. Ghost closes their eyes to the sight of it. Even when Quirrel has to climb or jump up onto a platform, Ghost remains undisturbed. The water that feeds this city is from a lake which holds painful memories, which soaks through the both of them. For the small Vessel, it is the sting of a recent defeat. They’re sure Quirrel is remembering something else. His voice isn’t as animated as usual, and he hasn’t spoken for a while.

When they’ve reached the Crossroads, he stops to rest on a flat, table-sized stone with Ghost still in his arms. The rush of water recedes into trickles in the long-worn rock. Neither of them speak for a while; their only conversation is Quirrel catching his breath. When the silence becomes too much for even Ghost, they slide from his arms and onto the floor. Their outstretched hand says everything they would’ve vocalized on a better day.

It is well past nightfall when they return to their house in Dirtmouth. The door to Hollow’s room is ajar, but what little they see inside is dark. At this hour, Hornet is likely at home but asleep: she does not greet them when they push open the front door.

Ghost traces a question onto Quirrel’s palm: _‘What did you need help with?’_

“Oh! Well...” Quirrel brightens up; perhaps he had forgotten what it was for a moment, only for Ghost to strike his memory with a match. He strolls into the kitchen, and starts reaching into the cupboards and ice box. Flour, sugar, a little bottle of oil, baking soda—what in the world? They’ve never paid attention when Hornet is cooking, nor have they tried making food for themselves. All the nourishment they need can be found just from foraging.

When Quirrel heaves a bottle of white, opaque liquid onto the table, Ghost starts to worry. They’ve never seen that in the kitchen before. It’s the same color as Soul, but it’s not glowing. As Quirrel is counting out Flukemon eggs, Ghost climbs onto the table to inspect the bottle. It’s cold to touch, and when they unscrew the lid, it smells sweet inside.

“Is this your first time seeing milk?” Quirrel asks. Ghost nods, and he continues, “It’s said to come from creatures that roam the edge of the world, but this is made from oats. Here, try some.”

That doesn’t explain what he’s going to do with it in combination with all these other ingredients, but Ghost never turns down an offer for free food. They take the glass offered to them, and after a tentative sip, cannot stop themselves from gulping the rest of it down. It’s sweet and creamy, but without the stickiness of honey. It’s as cold as a winter day and eases the ache in their empty stomach.

Ghost lifts their empty glass, silently pleading for seconds, which Quirrel happily obliges. As they’re drinking, he measures out dry ingredients into a mixing bowl to sift. It looks just like powdered snow, and Ghost leans forward to stick their hand into the bowl.

“You may try,” Quirrel says, offering them the whisk. Ghost stirs vigorously, sending plumes of flour and baking soda into the air. Before they can make an even bigger mess, the whisk is taken from them. They flop morosely back into their seat, and continue to drink their milk. Quirrel lets out an awkward laugh, and tilts the bowl towards them.

“When stirring ingredients, it’s best to move with your wrist instead of your entire arm.” He demonstrates as so, and Ghost sets their glass aside to watch. “But it’s nicely mixed already, so we’ll melt the butter now.”

‘We’ ends up meaning Quirrel manning the stove, while Ghost stands by and watches. It doesn’t take long for the little yellow block to soften. Ghost has no idea what the point of all this is, but it sure is fun watching him maneuver the kitchen. He moves with the swiftness and confidence of someone who has been cooking since he was tall enough to reach the stove. Is this what he was doing before Hallownest fell? For the first time, Ghost has become curious about Quirrel’s history. He had apparently been up to far more than just being Monomon’s assistant.

Both Quirrel’s hands are occupied, so they poke against his carapace: _‘Quirrel cooked a lot in the past?’_

His hands freeze, and one of the eggs almost lands outside of the mixing bowl. He hastily scoops it back in, and forces a laugh. “Of course. How else was I going to feed myself? Back then there were others, too, and...”

He goes back to whisking the bowl. “That was a long, long time ago, and we didn’t have to traipse all over creation to get basic ingredients. Why, the City of Tears used to be so bustling. You could buy anything you needed there.”

Ghost props their chin on their hands as Quirrel regales them with tales of the old capitol. The bad day they’ve had recedes into the background of the bright image their friend paints. It is not the Hallownest that they know, and it will never—should never—be that kingdom again. However, Quirrel speaks with such wistfulness that they wish they could’ve seen it just once.

“I have no memories of it, just knowledge,” Quirrel clarifies, when Ghost starts to ask a question. “For example, do you remember how you know how you learned to wield your nail?”

Ghost shakes their head, and Quirrel says, “That’s how it is with me. Could you get me a tray from the bottom drawer? And that little tin, too? Thank you, friend. Now comes the fun part.”

To Ghost’s horror, Quirrel sprinkles a handful of flour on the tabletop. What is Hornet going to do when she sees this mess? Their confusion intensifies when he drops a wad of dough on top of it all. He kneads into it, rolling it over and pressing at it until it begins to thin out. All the while he hums, nonchalant as ever.

‘ _What are you doing?’_ Ghost asks, prodding Quirrel’s arm. He responds by lifting them into his arms, and placing the tin in their hands. _‘It’s messy.’_

“A little mess never hurt anyone.” Quirrel pops open the tin, which contains several metal...rings? But not all of them are ring-shaped. There are stars and hearts, too. Even a couple of bug-shaped ones. “You can use these to cut shapes in the dough.”

Ghost picks up a star and, very hesitantly, presses it into the dough. And again, and again. They pick up the bug-shaped one. A butterfly, they think? It’s such a generic shape, but there’s something satisfying about this. They squish up the leftover dough, roll it out as Quirrel had done, and start the process anew. The counter is messy, and there are more cookies than they know what to do with, but it has all been so much fun.

The aroma of sugar and vanilla fills the kitchen, lulling Ghost into a drowsy state as they wait in front of the oven. Their head lolls, but before they can fall, Quirrel gathers them up. With all the stress they’ve gone through today, it’s no wonder they’re so tired. He carries them up to their room, and when they are safely tucked into their basket, he returns to his vigil in the kitchen, where once-forgotten memories swim just beneath the surface of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Greenpath has hardly changed over the past few months. Even without the Infection, the feral bugs that roam the overgrowth are still hostile, and make for good foraging and hunting grounds. For Hornet, it’s almost like stepping back into her childhood. True, she has spent a lot of time here, but there are certain corners of this place that remind her of when she was small, and had watched the mossy forest grow into something unfamiliar.

She splashes a handful of water onto her hot face. It dribbles down her shell and neck; she furiously scrubs it away. Her hands shake more when they’re in fists, and she stops to stare at them. Her claws dig into her palms, made soft from her own terror. The air is clean, and the maskflies have returned in abundance, but Hornet cannot see anything but the bright light that threatens to swallow it all back up.

She forgets what she’s doing here until her palm catches an errant thorn in the moss. Somewhere in her haze, she wound up near the territory of one of the only other sapient residents here. This is not a problem: she meant to come here. She only worries that he _heard_ her. The spring she found is one of his, close enough to his hideout that no other bug would dare come near.

At the edge of the spring, the land tips, and a thin line of water continues downwards and into the mouth of a natural sinkhole. Around the edges are spikes that feel bone-like to touch, and have been sharpened to lethal perfection. Hornet perches on one, and the maskflies gathered there scatter at her presence.

The entrances to the Hunter’s den are always well-kept and camouflaged, but there was no natural way of covering up a sinkhole like this one. She was there when it had been fortified, some fifty or so years back.

A low growl from beneath rumbles the earth, and as she had hoped, six pairs of eyes emerge from the darkness.

“You’ve grown bold, spider, to approach my home without heed or stealth,” rasps the owner of those eyes. The Hunter rises through the opening of the hole, and then all the way out. The top of his leaf and moss-cloaked form brushes against the cave ceiling. He crawls past her to the spring, and lowers his head to drink. “Such a rare occurrence.”

“I’m here for my journal.” It’s the first time Hornet has spoken all day, and she sounds awful. Her voice comes out in a croak. She stakes her needle in the ground and folds her arms over the handle, looking as casual as she can for someone who had just had a crying jag outside of someone’s house.

The Hunter grunts. “I still have it. This way.” He beckons her with the wave of his hand, and she follows him into the dark, damp hole he calls home. She perches on a spike, practically a maskfly herself, and watches him dig up a hole in the ground. He unearths an earthenware jar, inside of which is not only her journal, but the prototypes of the tools she has long since mastered the crafting of.

The journal has been well-preserved, all things considered. She brushes the dirt off, and tests the page. They are brittle, likely to come apart with rough handling. The best solution she can think of is to bind it in her silk, cushioning it from the elements.

“I didn’t think you were the nostalgic type,” the Hunter remarks as he reburies the jar. “In fact, I recall you complaining when I first assigned that book to you.”

“I’m to compile its contents with Ghost’s journal. Nothing more.” Hornet’s legs wobble. She lowers herself by a thread to a stone wheel, the remnant of an old cart, she thinks. While she adjusts the cover on the old book, the Hunter pinches her arm between his forefinger and thumb. The chitin depresses; she thinks it’s going to pop, and instinctively goes for her needle. When the Hunter has retreated, holding his wounded palm, she clacks her chelicerae together and hisses.

“If you sneak up on me like that again—” Hornet tucks the journal under her arm and jumps out of the way as the Hunter’s comparatively massive hand reaches for her. “Don’t!”

“In all the decades of your absence, you have not changed a bit. Come here.” The Hunter catches her by the back of her cloak, and lifts her like a kitten-faced spider. “Petulant as ever. Come spring I am leaving Hallownest. It is selfish of you to come here, and then immediately try to leave.”

It takes about three seconds for Hornet to regress to an angry hatchling. She thrusts her needle at him like a bee’s stinger, and makes a garbled hissing sound. Worse than being manhandled is finding out that he’s just up and leaving, and on such short notice.

“I am not the one who has decided to take an impromptu trip,” Hornet shoots back. To save face, she adds, “You should let Ghost know.”

“Hmph. I come and go as I please. I will tell them when they next visit.” The Hunter settles her atop his head, where her anger quickly loses steam. She should have known that something like this would happen. There’s no longer the risk of bugs losing their minds should they leave Hallownest, so many have left to seek more hospitable lands.

The Hunter crawls further into the den, and Hornet hunkers down into his moss cloak. In it are flowers she has seen Ghost come back with, handfuls of them that go into glasses on windowsills and into drawers as potpourri.

“Are you leaving for good, then?” Hornet asks, taking notice of how empty the den looks. What little he owns has been packed away, or buried for safekeeping in freshly-turned holes in the ground. It was far more cluttered last time she was here, but that was also quite a while ago. Her own living situation has changed so many times that she has seldom known a permanent home, and this is no exception.

“For a long while, but not for good. I have seen all there is to see. I have hunted all there is to hunt. It is time for me to move on to the next kingdom, and start the process over with a new journal. These past months I have spent preparing.”

He crawls through a tunnel, dug wide enough that he barely needs to lower his head to make it through. On the other side is an empty fire pit, with several holes in the ceiling as ventilation. There’s luggage fit for a bug the size of the Hunter: a leather rucksack that’s as big as the heftiest sentries in the city. Next to it is a nondescript bundle wrapped in wide leaves and tied off with the vines that inhabit the area. The Hunter plucks it off the ground, and hands it off to Hornet.

“Take this. Bring it to your siblings, use it for that hovel the little squib calls a house,” the Hunter grunts. Hornet takes a peek inside the package, and sees a fur blanket. At least, that’s how she remembers it. It could be used as a carpet or a window covering, should the need arise. She puts her hand on the soft bristles, and like being stung with her own needle, she remembers all of the nights spent curled up on it, with the world sideways and the only light being a dimming campfire.

“You have my thanks, but why?” Hornet asks. The Hunter has lumbered close enough to one of the holes in the ceiling, and she takes advantage of the proximity to leap off his head and onto one of the spikes leading upwards. He grumbles and digs a hole for a handful of serrated knives, but does not answer.

“Hm?”

Hornet tucks the packages under her arm. “I said, why? I have never given you a single thing in return that could repay my debt.”

The Hunter looks up, six eyes first on her, then the exit above her through which lichens are growing through. “What debt does a half-starved hatchling owe for food and shelter?”

Hornet, who had ceased to think of herself as a child long before her actual adulthood, goes blank. The journal and the blanket feel heavy. The cave ceiling seems much higher than the needle’s throw away that it is.

“More than you’d think.” She flinches, but it’s only one of the Hunter’s claws, resting between her horns. The last time he did that, she was half her current height and stupefied with fever. How many decades did he say she had been gone? How, exactly, did time pass when Hallownest was put into stasis? In the end, she knows not how long she had stayed in Greenpath, nor what she had missed out on when she abruptly left.

“I’m taking these home.” She backs away, and bows her head politely. With the excuse of seeing her siblings, she throws her needle through the hole in the ceiling, and flies out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are both described as hunters, they are both first encountered in Greenpath, they have canonically interacted, the Hunter's entry for the Flukemarm...HMMMMMMM


End file.
